


The Woman I've Become

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Voyeurism, long since corrupted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sansa gets attention from suitors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman I've Become

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt: Petyr makes a particularly forward suitor watch.

“Is he to your liking?”

Sansa nearly jumps out of her skin at his words, the press of his hand on her waist. She hasn’t heard him enter the room. _Stupid girl,_ she thinks. _Be more observant._

She turns to face Petyr. His eyes are a bit glassy with drink and she feels her shoulders unclench at the sight. He’s gotten more and more sloppy around her over the years, which makes him easier to control. He’s more than a little predictable when he’s in this state. 

She tells herself that this is the only reason she prefers him this way, but she knows it’s all lies. He always gazes at her with naked lust when he’s in his cups, making the heat pool in her stomach. She doesn’t wish to own up to this reaction, but there’s no denying its existence. 

She knows the man he’s talking about. Not a minor lord, no ( _though they’re all minor lords to us_ ). As a widow, as Lady of the Vale, she has her pick of them, and this one is just a bit more charming than most. Handsome, idealistic but not to the point of naïveté. Sharp eyes, sharp words, with a bit of unpolished skill showing through. She knows that annoys and excites Petyr in equal measure—the possibility of a worthy opponent mixed with the desire to crush him before that skill is honed. 

She also knows that he sees her attraction. His hand is all but digging into her waist. 

“Yes he is.” There’s no sense in lying. Edmund—that’s his name, member of a cadet house, a man who seeks a greater station than what he has—has qualities that few women could resist. Sansa finds him interesting. 

Petyr’s mouth lifts in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and she finds she can’t help but mirror it. 

“Well now,” he says, taking her arm, leading out of her chambers, into the cool hall. “What are we going to do about that?”

\----

Edmund’s own chambers are warm, the wave of heat hitting her as soon as Petyr opens the door. And underneath that warmth was a sharp, metallic smell that she’s become far too familiar with. 

Sansa hurries inside, bolting the door in a flash. 

Edmund is standing in the center of the room, eyes wild and hair mused. When he locks eyes with her his face takes on a curious expression, a mix of relief and fear. His skin is both flushed and pale, and he looks as though he may collapse at a moments notice. 

Petyr is as calm and controlled as he could be expected to be under the influence of wine, and Sansa wonders if he has not learned to play up its effects for some reason of his own. She certainly wouldn’t put it past him. After all, it is something she has done herself.

“You brought Lady Hardyng?” The words seem thick in his mouth and he suddenly seems much, much younger than his years. 

Sansa looks at the fire and notices the distinct line of a white sleeve, darkened with what could only be blood, that had not yet been caught by the flames. Petyr gently pokes it into fire and it’s soon devoured, blackened through and through. 

“Our lord has had a bit of an accident,” Petyr says, voice steady. His eyes are focused on the fire but Sansa knows he is watching both of them out of the corner of his eye. 

“It seems he went to bed with one of the maids,” he continues. He turns slightly to face Sansa. “Surely you can forgive him that—with all the attention you showed him at dinner, he needed at outlet.”

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen!” Edmund says, his voice breaking. Sansa rests her hands on the back of a nearby chair to keep from rushing to comfort him; she knows she must observe first. 

“And with all that drink, a man can be forgiven a blackout. Perhaps he mistook her for a thief?” Petyr continues. He crosses the room to Edmund and eases him in a chair. “Have a seat before you faint, sir.”

Sansa does the same, sitting across from him, hands gripped tight in her lap. Edmund seems as though he could crack at any moment, and she tries to split her gaze between the two men. “Where is she now?”

Petyr smiles at her, and this time it seems to match his eyes. “I took care of that. It’s done.” He claps Edmund on the back before making his way to her, lightly resting a hand on her own shoulder. “It’s a good thing I came along first, isn’t it Edmund?” 

The other man can’t seem to speak, but he nods, eyes wide. Petyr runs his fingers along Sansa’s shoulder, dipping them down to the smooth skin of her collarbone, and she feels the heat rise in her cheeks. 

“Of course, now I know a bit more about the man who seeks my ward.” She wishes to correct him—she’s not his ward, she’s Lady of the Vale, but the words seem false in her mouth before she can even speak them. “Don’t I, sweetling?”

“What are you going to do?” Edmund asks, voice shaking. He seems so pitiful. Sansa wishes she could hug him, but at the same time she finds herself almost repulsed by his weakness. _Do you really think you were so drunk you forgot stabbing that poor girl?_

“We keep secrets, don’t we Sansa? Although, it’s only fair that if we keep your secret you must keep ours.” She feels her breath catch as Petyr drops his hand down to cup a breast. Edmund is staring at them with wide eyes, his hands gripping the sides of his chair until his knuckles turn white. 

She wants to leave this room, with its heat and oppressive smell of death. She thinks of the maid—tries to, anyway, for she doesn’t know what girl it was that was sacrificed for this power play—but Petyr pulls her up, gently, and his lips are at her neck and her head is swimming. She has so much blood on her hands already, and Edmund’s lack of control both annoys and saddens her, because she knows she’ll never again be as horrified of death as he is now. 

Petyr is still kissing her neck when she meets Edmund’s eyes. She can’t quite make out what she sees there, but she hopes it’s a realization of her true nature. She’s not the girl she was at dinner, but someone melting in the arms of her protector in this room that stinks of murder and deceit. She’s not clean or pure, not anymore, and when Petyr reaches her mouth she gladly opens herself to him. 

“What are you doing?” Edmund asks. He sounds so stupid that Sansa can’t help but sigh in exasperation. Petyr laughs, though at who she can’t tell. 

“You’re going to sit and watch,” he explains, but he’s looking at Sansa the whole time. “And we won’t say a word.” 

Petyr turns her to the bed—the bedding has been stripped, and she suspects the mattress destroyed, given the clean state of this one—and gently sits her on the side. Her skirts hike up a little and he pushes them up further, exposing the tops of her stockings. She wet and hot all over, though from anger or shame or desire she can’t tell. 

Petyr slides a hand up between her thighs, finding her smallclothes soaked, and the look on his face is one of victory. He slides his long, talented fingers underneath, between her folds, bringing them to his mouth for a taste, staring into her eyes. She watches him under heavy eyelids and hates herself for the small noise she makes when he pulls away, just slightly, to look at Edmund. 

“Delectable.” His mouth is a cruel grin. Edmund is watching them, shock evident across his face. He says nothing to those words and she wonders what he must possibly be thinking. 

Petyr kisses her then; she tastes herself on his lips. His hands are at her bodice now, untying, freeing her breasts just enough that he can tease her nipples. Sansa moans and wraps one leg around him to press him again her, wishing for more driction. She’s never felt filthier than this, but she can’t deny the sudden heat racing through her, the perverse satisfaction she gets at Edmund’s slack mouth, tight grip, obvious arousal. 

Petyr pulls back slightly and she finds her own hands reaching for his cock, pressing the hardened length through his breeches, undoing the laces with a practiced hand. Petyr laughs and kisses her sweetly before turning his attention to their audience. 

“Might as well enjoy it,” he says. “I couldn’t let a murderer marry my ward, could I?”

“My lord…” Edmund starts, but he seems to lose his courage after that. _No, that would never do at all,_ Sansa thinks. _Not for the woman I’ve become._

She wraps her fingers around Petyr’s cock, pulls him just a bit too hard, enjoys his sharp intake of breath, pain and lust evident on his face. Petyr tears away her bodice, revealing more of her breast, and takes one nipple into his mouth as she works on him with a practiced hand. She watches Edmund all the while, watches his growing arousal and the way he tries to hide it. She wonders if all this anxiety will cause him to pass out before the act is over. 

Petyr slides into her quickly and she arches her back against the clean mattress. She wonders if the maid had done the same, when the knife had sliced through her. 

“And think,” Petyr pants against her neck. His thrusts are erratic, hurried and brutal, and she glad for it. “If you had _controlled_ yourself…” His words seem to fail him, but he makes his point pushing into her deeply, making her bite her lip until she feared she would again stain the bed with blood. 

She knows Petyr sees this as a victory. He’s claimed her before, with his mouth and hands and cock, and this is an extension of that, the ultimate claim on ownership. And she allows it—she knows she could break this off at any moment and he would collapse; he’s weak for her in ways he doesn’t realize. But she was wet for him from the moment the situation became clear—and part of it, she knows, was the power that raced through her. He’s controlling Edmund and thinks he’s controlling Sansa, but she knows she has both. Edmund desires her and Petyr’s making him see the foolishness of that, but she knew all along he was too weak for what she had become, and with this act she’s showing him the stained and complex woman that she is. And Petyr...she knows there’s not a second that passes where he’s not completely, totally, hers. 

She thinks that idea is what makes her come.  
\-----

Edmund leaves the Vale the next day and Sansa continues seeing her suitors and going to bed with Petyr. She continues to ply him with drink and kisses and words of love and learns his secrets. She continues to watch his muscles move under her hands, watch the even rise and fall of his ruined chest at night, and plan.


End file.
